Sometimes, Terry forgets he doesn’t belong here. It’s never dramatic or emotional. Just quiet moments when he’s alone and he expects to see Ace curled up next to the fireplace, or the old man’s medicine bottles, tucked away where he thinks Terry won’t see them. They’re never there, but it doesn’t stop him from doing a double take, just to be sure.
In some ways, Gotham never changes. The sounds, the smells, the high-rises making up the skyline like fingers scraping the sky – all of it paints a picture so familiar that Terry knew where he was the minute he opened his eyes. But when he looked at the whole thing, it felt off. The buildings were too short or too tall. The roads and the signs pointed in the wrong directions. It was home, just tilted. Like someone had taken Gotham and held it up to a fun house mirror.
It’s the rest of the Belfry that makes him feel less like a stranger these days, because Gotham wasn’t going to do that for him. Dick had been the first to embrace him, and Jason followed because it irritated Bruce. Tim was a harder sell, and Terry realized it was because Tim and Bruce were too much alike. Pragmatic to near rigidity.
And Bruce.
Well, Bruce never really came around.
He’d peeled him out of the suit the first night. Opened up panels. Checked the internals. Didn’t say much. But he let Terry stay. On the second night, he told him he believed his story. Terry always got the sense that Bruce didn’t like it. Not him personally. He could have kicked his ass and tossed him into Arkham without a second thought. What he didn’t like was the idea that he wasn’t going to be Batman forever.
Terry couldn’t prove it. But he could see it in the way Bruce looked at him. It wasn’t disgust. There was just nothing warm in it either. And Bruce liked it even less when Terry didn’t back down.
A month in, Bruce finally spoke more than two words to him. Asked him about his training routine one late night when he caught Terry eyeing the equipment.
Terry shrugged. “The old man couldn’t train me himself, so I ran his sims and put in the work myself.” He wasn’t ripped, but he was strong. Terry was surprised when Bruce gestured toward the mats.
“Show me.”
Terry had wondered, more than once, what Bruce had been like in his prime. He’d watched old training vids back home; they’d given him an idea of what to expect. But not how it would feel to finally be standing face to face with him. Bruce was big – solid arms, thick legs, wide hands – especially compared to Terry. Like he was something carved out of stone. Terry felt narrow and unfinished beside him.
“What are you waiting for?” Bruce barked. “I said show me!”
He was never going to take Bruce down directly. He knew it the second Bruce swallowed the distance between them. Fast. Not old man fast. Not careful fast. Just fast. Three moves and he was face-first on the mat. Bruce’s arm dug into his back, pressing him down. “Too slow. Do it again.”
Terry got to his feet, the moment sinking into clarity. He’d seen those moves before. Old, grainy footage. Slowed down and studied. Just never this close. Bruce knew how to use all of his bulk to his advantage. There had to be a way Terry could use it against him. He only had seconds to study him, to see where Bruce might have left himself vulnerable before Terry lunged. Quicker this time, but Bruce still caught his swing mid-arc and twisted his arm behind him. He held him there, let Terry feel the unnatural angle. A sharp reminder that Bruce knew exactly how far a body could bend before it broke. Then he shoved him away and reset like it was nothing. Like Terry was nothing.
“Again.”
Again.
Terry rolled his shoulder, mouth set firm. He could do this. Right side dominant. Commit left. He wasn’t going to beat Bruce at his own game. If he couldn’t trade power, he’d trade angles.
He cut across the mat, low and steady. Shifted left and swung. Close. So close he felt the brush of fabric against his knuckles. Bruce pivoted at the last second. The strike cut through empty air.
“I’ve seen enough.” Bruce waved a hand, dismissive, like he was shooing a bug. It stung and Terry should have backed off. Swallowed it. Walked away. But he stood up straight and looked Bruce in the eye.
“You don’t think I can do this.”
“I don’t have to think it,” Bruce said, voice even. Calm. Infuriating. “You just proved you can’t.”
Terry felt the words like teeth.
“You were never gonna let me try.”
Bruce didn’t respond but he didn’t need to. The look on his face said enough. The hard lines setting deeper. The cool, measured appraisal in his eyes. It all cut deep and let some of the homesickness Terry had buried seep out. He knew Bruce could be difficult. He could live with difficult. His Bruce had doubted him, but he had never dismissed him.
“No wonder you end up alone.”
The air shifted.
“What was that?”
“You heard me.”
And that was the problem. Bruce had heard him and he didn’t like it. Terry wasn’t surprised. Bruce rarely liked anything. He didn’t shrink when Bruce closed the distance. He didn’t flinch when Bruce grabbed his shirt and dragged him in close, feet skidding against the mat. They were face to face, nowhere left to look but into Bruce’s eyes. Terry held his ground, even if he felt small in Bruce’s hands.
“You are slow. Ineffective. Sloppy.”
He never said the rest, but Terry heard it anyway: You don’t deserve this. The verdict in an unfair trial. Bruce had already decided before Terry stepped onto the mat.
“You don’t know anything about me, old man,” Terry said, jaw tight, fingers digging into the meat of Bruce’s wrist, testing the grip, looking for leverage.
Bruce yanked him in closer. Terry felt his breath on his face. “I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Bruce’s hand felt like a vise, tightening until Terry’s breath hitched. The question dangled between them like a blade. Terry’s feet lifted from the mat, toes scrambling for purchase but finding nothing but air.
“I’m going to correct you.”
Terry didn’t have to guess what he meant. Not when the world began to tilt as Bruce drove him into the mat.
“You are not Batman. I am.”
His weight crushed the air out of him. Terry’s fingers flexed against the mats as he tried to buck free, but Bruce didn’t budge.
“I believe your story and I will help you get home. You will not wear that suit while you’re here. Am I clear?”
“Get off me, Bruce.” Terry jerked his shoulder, drove an elbow back. He didn’t care where it landed.
Bruce shifted his weight, pressing just enough to remind him who had the leverage. “Am I clear?”
Terry’s face flushed red, breath thinning under the pressure. He couldn’t pull himself free. Not while Bruce crushed him into the mat. “Yes, sir.”
The word tasted bitter, but it worked because Bruce finally lifted off of him and stepped out of the arena. “Good. We’re done.”
Terry stayed with the moment, staring at the ceiling until his eyes burned. Then he rolled to his feet and stalked to the shower.
warnings: Bruce being a creep to and about Terry. Also he's a perv.
---
When Terry left the Cave, Bruce pretended not to notice.
He kept his eyes on his work. Case file open, rotating through evidence under the cold glow of the monitors. He didn’t scroll. Didn’t blink. The elevator dinged, the doors hissed closed. And Terry was gone. Bruce said nothing.
It was for the best. The kid had no real training. No business putting himself in harm’s way. What was his counterpart thinking? Bruce couldn’t say. He just knew he would never be that careless.
Or that lonely.
He had not enjoyed humiliating Terry on the mats. Bruce saw so much of the others in him – Dick’s agility. Jason’s defiance. Tim’s calculation. And how seamlessly he wove those traits together. It was impressive.
None of that mattered when the suit did the work. Too much of it. Terry wouldn’t always have it and if he couldn’t stand without it, he had no business wearing it. Luck wouldn’t save him forever.
Bruce wasn’t going to bury anyone else.
That should have been final. He had rendered his verdict and Terry had agreed to the terms. He should have put this all away and moved on. There was work to do. But in the lingering silence after the elevator doors closed, Bruce pulled up the footage of their match and watched it. Then he watched it again.
Over and over. Until the last moment: his body bowed deep over Terry’s, pinning him to the mat. His wide hands splayed across his back, the way Terry struggled against him. That had always been the part he couldn’t look away from. The fury and determination. The stubbornness. Against an immovable force, the kid was alive.
He didn’t just watch. He memorized. Folded every angle and every motion into his memory. Bruce had always trained them to endure. Resist. Survive. And here was Terry, stubborn and raw. Rebelling. Against him. Against everything.
His hand dropped low, resting on the erection pressing against his sweats. He was never going to get anything done like this. Not while this lived in every synapse in his brain. So just this once and he would put it out of his mind.
He replayed the footage again, a hand slipping under his waistband and wrapping his calloused fingers around his cock. He stroked himself long and slow as the footage replayed. Eyes fixed on the flex of Terry’s muscles, the way he moved. Bruce watched Terry’s face and imagined what his messy hair would look like clutched in his fist as he fucked him from behind, face pressed into the mat.
Bruce’s breath hitched, head pitched forward, free hand bracing against the desk to keep himself steady. He wouldn’t last much longer like this. He saw Terry’s face behind his shut eyes, the snarl on his face and the way he bucked to escape him. But he couldn’t escape. Bruce held him fast and hard. That’s the image he came to, groaning quietly into the open air.
He breathed through his orgasm and then willed himself back into his baseline. Stopped his heart from beating so frantically in his chest. When he looked up at the screen he caught sight of Terry, laying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. Then he rolled to his feet and headed for the showers. And Bruce knew just once wouldn’t be enough.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
correction.
In some ways, Gotham never changes. The sounds, the smells, the high-rises making up the skyline like fingers scraping the sky – all of it paints a picture so familiar that Terry knew where he was the minute he opened his eyes. But when he looked at the whole thing, it felt off. The buildings were too short or too tall. The roads and the signs pointed in the wrong directions. It was home, just tilted. Like someone had taken Gotham and held it up to a fun house mirror.
It’s the rest of the Belfry that makes him feel less like a stranger these days, because Gotham wasn’t going to do that for him. Dick had been the first to embrace him, and Jason followed because it irritated Bruce. Tim was a harder sell, and Terry realized it was because Tim and Bruce were too much alike. Pragmatic to near rigidity.
And Bruce.
Well, Bruce never really came around.
He’d peeled him out of the suit the first night. Opened up panels. Checked the internals. Didn’t say much. But he let Terry stay. On the second night, he told him he believed his story. Terry always got the sense that Bruce didn’t like it. Not him personally. He could have kicked his ass and tossed him into Arkham without a second thought. What he didn’t like was the idea that he wasn’t going to be Batman forever.
Terry couldn’t prove it. But he could see it in the way Bruce looked at him. It wasn’t disgust. There was just nothing warm in it either. And Bruce liked it even less when Terry didn’t back down.
A month in, Bruce finally spoke more than two words to him. Asked him about his training routine one late night when he caught Terry eyeing the equipment.
Terry shrugged. “The old man couldn’t train me himself, so I ran his sims and put in the work myself.” He wasn’t ripped, but he was strong. Terry was surprised when Bruce gestured toward the mats.
“Show me.”
Terry had wondered, more than once, what Bruce had been like in his prime. He’d watched old training vids back home; they’d given him an idea of what to expect. But not how it would feel to finally be standing face to face with him. Bruce was big – solid arms, thick legs, wide hands – especially compared to Terry. Like he was something carved out of stone. Terry felt narrow and unfinished beside him.
“What are you waiting for?” Bruce barked. “I said show me!”
He was never going to take Bruce down directly. He knew it the second Bruce swallowed the distance between them. Fast. Not old man fast. Not careful fast. Just fast. Three moves and he was face-first on the mat. Bruce’s arm dug into his back, pressing him down. “Too slow. Do it again.”
Terry got to his feet, the moment sinking into clarity. He’d seen those moves before. Old, grainy footage. Slowed down and studied. Just never this close. Bruce knew how to use all of his bulk to his advantage. There had to be a way Terry could use it against him. He only had seconds to study him, to see where Bruce might have left himself vulnerable before Terry lunged. Quicker this time, but Bruce still caught his swing mid-arc and twisted his arm behind him. He held him there, let Terry feel the unnatural angle. A sharp reminder that Bruce knew exactly how far a body could bend before it broke. Then he shoved him away and reset like it was nothing. Like Terry was nothing.
“Again.”
Again.
Terry rolled his shoulder, mouth set firm. He could do this. Right side dominant. Commit left. He wasn’t going to beat Bruce at his own game. If he couldn’t trade power, he’d trade angles.
He cut across the mat, low and steady. Shifted left and swung. Close. So close he felt the brush of fabric against his knuckles. Bruce pivoted at the last second. The strike cut through empty air.
“I’ve seen enough.” Bruce waved a hand, dismissive, like he was shooing a bug. It stung and Terry should have backed off. Swallowed it. Walked away. But he stood up straight and looked Bruce in the eye.
“You don’t think I can do this.”
“I don’t have to think it,” Bruce said, voice even. Calm. Infuriating. “You just proved you can’t.”
Terry felt the words like teeth.
“You were never gonna let me try.”
Bruce didn’t respond but he didn’t need to. The look on his face said enough. The hard lines setting deeper. The cool, measured appraisal in his eyes. It all cut deep and let some of the homesickness Terry had buried seep out. He knew Bruce could be difficult. He could live with difficult. His Bruce had doubted him, but he had never dismissed him.
“No wonder you end up alone.”
The air shifted.
“What was that?”
“You heard me.”
And that was the problem. Bruce had heard him and he didn’t like it. Terry wasn’t surprised. Bruce rarely liked anything. He didn’t shrink when Bruce closed the distance. He didn’t flinch when Bruce grabbed his shirt and dragged him in close, feet skidding against the mat. They were face to face, nowhere left to look but into Bruce’s eyes. Terry held his ground, even if he felt small in Bruce’s hands.
“You are slow. Ineffective. Sloppy.”
He never said the rest, but Terry heard it anyway: You don’t deserve this. The verdict in an unfair trial. Bruce had already decided before Terry stepped onto the mat.
“You don’t know anything about me, old man,” Terry said, jaw tight, fingers digging into the meat of Bruce’s wrist, testing the grip, looking for leverage.
Bruce yanked him in closer. Terry felt his breath on his face. “I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Bruce’s hand felt like a vise, tightening until Terry’s breath hitched. The question dangled between them like a blade. Terry’s feet lifted from the mat, toes scrambling for purchase but finding nothing but air.
“I’m going to correct you.”
Terry didn’t have to guess what he meant. Not when the world began to tilt as Bruce drove him into the mat.
“You are not Batman. I am.”
His weight crushed the air out of him. Terry’s fingers flexed against the mats as he tried to buck free, but Bruce didn’t budge.
“I believe your story and I will help you get home. You will not wear that suit while you’re here. Am I clear?”
“Get off me, Bruce.” Terry jerked his shoulder, drove an elbow back. He didn’t care where it landed.
Bruce shifted his weight, pressing just enough to remind him who had the leverage. “Am I clear?”
Terry’s face flushed red, breath thinning under the pressure. He couldn’t pull himself free. Not while Bruce crushed him into the mat. “Yes, sir.”
The word tasted bitter, but it worked because Bruce finally lifted off of him and stepped out of the arena. “Good. We’re done.”
Terry stayed with the moment, staring at the ceiling until his eyes burned. Then he rolled to his feet and stalked to the shower.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
aftermath. (NSFW)
---
When Terry left the Cave, Bruce pretended not to notice.
He kept his eyes on his work. Case file open, rotating through evidence under the cold glow of the monitors. He didn’t scroll. Didn’t blink. The elevator dinged, the doors hissed closed. And Terry was gone. Bruce said nothing.
It was for the best. The kid had no real training. No business putting himself in harm’s way. What was his counterpart thinking? Bruce couldn’t say. He just knew he would never be that careless.
Or that lonely.
He had not enjoyed humiliating Terry on the mats. Bruce saw so much of the others in him – Dick’s agility. Jason’s defiance. Tim’s calculation. And how seamlessly he wove those traits together. It was impressive.
None of that mattered when the suit did the work. Too much of it. Terry wouldn’t always have it and if he couldn’t stand without it, he had no business wearing it. Luck wouldn’t save him forever.
Bruce wasn’t going to bury anyone else.
That should have been final. He had rendered his verdict and Terry had agreed to the terms. He should have put this all away and moved on. There was work to do. But in the lingering silence after the elevator doors closed, Bruce pulled up the footage of their match and watched it. Then he watched it again.
Over and over. Until the last moment: his body bowed deep over Terry’s, pinning him to the mat. His wide hands splayed across his back, the way Terry struggled against him. That had always been the part he couldn’t look away from. The fury and determination. The stubbornness. Against an immovable force, the kid was alive.
He didn’t just watch. He memorized. Folded every angle and every motion into his memory. Bruce had always trained them to endure. Resist. Survive. And here was Terry, stubborn and raw. Rebelling. Against him. Against everything.
His hand dropped low, resting on the erection pressing against his sweats. He was never going to get anything done like this. Not while this lived in every synapse in his brain. So just this once and he would put it out of his mind.
He replayed the footage again, a hand slipping under his waistband and wrapping his calloused fingers around his cock. He stroked himself long and slow as the footage replayed. Eyes fixed on the flex of Terry’s muscles, the way he moved. Bruce watched Terry’s face and imagined what his messy hair would look like clutched in his fist as he fucked him from behind, face pressed into the mat.
Bruce’s breath hitched, head pitched forward, free hand bracing against the desk to keep himself steady. He wouldn’t last much longer like this. He saw Terry’s face behind his shut eyes, the snarl on his face and the way he bucked to escape him. But he couldn’t escape. Bruce held him fast and hard. That’s the image he came to, groaning quietly into the open air.
He breathed through his orgasm and then willed himself back into his baseline. Stopped his heart from beating so frantically in his chest. When he looked up at the screen he caught sight of Terry, laying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. Then he rolled to his feet and headed for the showers. And Bruce knew just once wouldn’t be enough.